Starfist: Wings of Hell (38 page)

Corporal Claypoole looked up bewildered from the helmet he held in his hands. It was something that looked and felt like leather, and had metal rectangles riveted onto it. It was somewhat conical in shape, flattened a bit from front to back; it didn’t rise to a point, but curved abruptly before it reached its peak, and had two horns jutting above. The leather fell in an apron in back, and the apron had wings that could wrap around to protect the neck from the front. Short wooden dowels held by loops of leather secured the wings of the apron.

“What’s this supposed to protect you from?” he asked nobody in particular.

“Th-this, probably,” Corporal Doyle said. He was turning a sword around in his hands. The blade of the sword was nearly a meter long and gently curved. Its surface rippled under the changing light of its movement. The sword’s hilt seemed to be strips of wood tightly bound with a leather strap, and the pommel was a simple metal ovoid with elaborate engravings on the blade side.

Sergeant Kerr held a leather-and-metal tunic, scorched by the fire that had vaporized its wearer. Old repairs in the tunic showed that it had actually seen use, that it wasn’t a ceremonial garment. “They’ve got real weapons,” he said. “When would they fight like this? And
why
?”

Lieutenant Bass stood nearby, examining another sword. “They’re alien,” he said. “We may never understand them.”

What everybody
did
understand was the war against the Skinks on Haulover was over. But the war against the Skinks was probably not. Over the next few days, the elements of the XVIII and XXX Corps that were permanent parts of Task Force Aguinaldo began heading back to Arsenault. The other units returned to their home bases.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Mr. Brackle, I am Special Agent Don Rittenhouse of the Ministry of Justice.” The man held out his credentials. “And this is Special Agent Trace Keen.” Keen held out his credentials. “We’d like to talk to you.”

“It’s ‘Brattle,’ gentlemen,” Zechariah Brattle interrupted Rittenhouse.

“What? Oh. Excuse me, Mr. Brattle. Sorry. We’d like to talk to you about—”

“That letter I sent to Ensign Bass on Thorsfinni’s World?” Zechariah asked eagerly.

Rittenhouse glanced at Keen. “Uh, yes, Mr. Brattle, that letter, the effect it had, and our search for the Skink you call Moses—”

“Thank the Lord!” Zechariah exclaimed. He got up from his desk, came around, and shook hands vigorously with the two agents. “I
knew
Charlie’d come through! You’ve found him, then? Moses? Thank God, thank God!”

“No, we have not found this Moses, Mr. Brattle,” Special Agent Keen said. “We’ve arrested Dr. Gobels and his assistant, Pensy Fogel.”

“Devious and untrustworthy charlatans,” Zechariah said, nodding.

“We’ve questioned everyone at a place called Wellfordsville, on Earth, a small town on the eastern seaboard of what used to be the United States. Near there was where this Gobels had his clandestine laboratory. But Moses,” he said with a shrug, “has got away and we have not been able to find him.”

Zechariah offered the two agents chairs and resumed his own seat. Rittenhouse briefly explained the raid on Dr. Gobels’s lab outside Wellfordsville, how the two renegade scientists had been apprehended as well as, eventually, his three accomplices, three local ne’er-do-wells. “A lady named Treemonisha Giddings had been harboring Moses, Mr. Brattle, but he fled into the wilderness. We have this Ms. Giddings, a fine old Christian woman, to thank for saving Moses. But he’s gone, sir, disappeared into the vast swamplands somewhere north of this Wellfordsville place and we have not been able to find him.”

Zechariah was silent for a moment, regarding the two agents. Rittenhouse was tall and spare, Keen short and round. “Then you will never find him,” Zechariah pronounced at last. “Water is his element. He’s like a fish when he gets into it. But no net, no hooks, no weir will ever snare that boy. He’s as intelligent as we are, and his instinct will override whatever civilization we’ve been able to breed into him.”

“Winter’s coming on back there, Mr. Brattle. How will your Moses survive when the swamp water freezes over? He has never had to fend for himself in nature, and there is not much time for him to learn. We know enough about Skinks to know they thrive in warm, wet climates. How will he fare when it gets really cold? Can he hibernate? We were hoping to find out these things. This Dr. Gobels, he ran extensive tests on Moses, but he has refused to divulge what he knows, and his laboratory, along with all his records, burned.” Rittenhouse shrugged. “You know how important Moses can be to us in our war with the Skinks. We’ve come to ask for your help, Mr. Brattle.”

Zechariah looked from one man to the other. “How? How can I help?”

“We think it’s a good bet that since Moses lived with you and your family, he’ll trust you,” Keen said. “To him you may be a father figure.”

“That’s right, Mr. Brattle. You can come back to Earth with us and we’ll take you into the swamps and you will proclaim the name of Moses throughout the land, and lead
him
to the promised land.” Rittenhouse smiled.

“I can hardly wait,” Zechariah replied dryly. “I hope it doesn’t take forty years,” he added, and then laughed. “When do we leave?”

“Right now,” Rittenhouse replied.

They made the trip to Earth in the luxury of a BOMARC 37A starship, a great improvement on the earlier, 36V corporate starships. This, Rittenhouse explained, was the attorney general’s personal starship.

Once at the Fargo spaceport they were chauffeured directly to the Ministry of Justice, where Huygens Long, the Confederation’s attorney general, awaited. On the long ride into the city Zechariah gawked at the huge buildings. He had thought Haven and Interstellar City were the epitome of urban sprawl, but Fargo took his breath away.

“Mr. Brickle, I’ve heard a lot about you, sir,” Long said as Rittenhouse and Keen escorted Zechariah into his office.

“He hasn’t learned to pronounce my name,” Zechariah muttered to Rittenhouse.

“It’s
Brattle,
sir, Zechariah Brattle,” Rittenhouse corrected Long.

“Well, Mr. Brattle, I’m not attorney general ’cause I’m the smartest guy in this government, I’m AG ’cause I’m an old cop and I always get my man. I don’t practice law, Mr. Brattle, never have. Please accept my apologies. Please be seated.”

Immediately Zechariah took a liking to the bluff, plainspoken, portly official. “Sir,” he said, “the Skinks killed my only son, Samuel, and I killed Skinks.” His face colored and his eyes took on a brightness. “True justice is the Lord’s business, but until He prescribes, I’ll do what I can to help our fight against these alien monsters.”

“Well, Mr. Brattle, maybe our fight is the Lord’s way of meting out justice.”

Zechariah shook his head. “We of the City of God believe that will only come on Judgment Day. Our jurisdiction is only over their bodies, not their souls. I’ll do whatever I can to help you destroy those bodies.”

“Does your Moses have a soul, Mr. Brattle?”

“You bet, Mr. Long, and he’s living proof they all aren’t bad.”

Long smiled. “It’s almost time for lunch, Mr. Brattle. You have been invited to a special luncheon elsewhere in the city. Shall we go?”

“Will there be cold beer?”

“You bet, Mr. Brattle!” Huygens Long in his own turn had taken an instant liking to the straightforward Zechariah. They left the office in close conversation, Long’s massive arm draped over Zechariah’s thin shoulders.

Zechariah had the surprise of his life when ushered into a private dining room somewhere in the innards of Government Center (he’d become completely lost as they negotiated the vast complex) to find that their host was none other than Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, the President of the Confederation of Human Worlds.

“Mr. Brattle,” she said, rising from the immaculately set luncheon table and extending her hand, “how very pleased I am to meet you!” Her hand was smooth, dry, and warm.

Zechariah had seen vids of Chang-Sturdevant but he never realized she looked so charming, so handsome in real life. He could only stand there, his mouth hanging half open. He glanced accusingly at Long as if to say, “Why didn’t you
tell
me who our host was?” Long only grinned and helped Chang-Sturdevant back into her chair, after which he excused himself and left them alone to dine and talk. All Zechariah could say as he took his own place was “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

They made small talk throughout the luncheon. Chang-Sturdevant asked many questions about Kingdom and the Brattles, and Zechariah had the distinct impression she found his responses genuinely interesting. He found her an easy person to talk to and he found himself warming to her; he felt comfortable and at ease in her company. She had the effect on people of relaxing them with easy, friendly conversation about everyday things and a genuine interest in their personal lives.

“This beer is excellent!” Zechariah exclaimed at one point.

“It’s Reindeer Ale, Mr. Brattle.”

“Ah! The Marines drink Reindeer Ale!” Zechariah replied. “They really like it.”

“I do too, sir. And I like my Marines.”

After the dishes had been cleared away, Chang-Sturdevant leaned forward and said, “Mr. Brattle, I want you to know how important it is we find your Moses. He’s a frightened child, alone in a strange world and he’s been hunted like an animal. Those renegade scientists are both in custody, but as you probably already know, their laboratory and records were destroyed. Gobels is not talking, and his assistant doesn’t know as much as Gobels does, although he’s been cooperative, the AG tells me. But Moses is wandering now in the wilderness, wandering out there by himself and we must bring him in. You’ve seen the Skinks. I know what they did to you. You know how vicious they can be. But Moses may be our only link to understanding them so we must bring him in, we must find out all we can about these”—she almost said “people”—“these creatures. We think you can help us in this. Will you help us, sir?”

“Will we get him back when this is all over?”

“Yes, I promise you that.”

“Then even if it takes me forty years,” he said smiling, “I’ll wander out there until I find him.”

At that point, on some hidden signal, Huygens Long came back into the room and assisted Chang-Sturdevant from her chair. “Mr. Brattle, very soon I’ll have my own child,” she announced. “Yes! At my age! My first one, can you imagine that? Mr. Brattle, I want that child to grow up in a world where he isn’t threatened by Skinks. We’re all counting on you. Thank you for coming.” She walked around the table, kissed Zechariah on the cheek, and walked out of the room.

“I never got one of those!” Long exclaimed, joking. “Well, Zechariah, let’s get a move on. You and my boys are headed for Wellfordsville in the morning. We can’t waste much time. Winter’s coming on.”

Dr. Joseph Gobels sat primly at the small table in the interrogation booth, his hands free but his feet in shackles. “You are treating me like a common criminal,” he told the young woman sitting opposite him.

“I assure you, Doctor, you are not at all
common,
” she replied evenly. “You are a very rare and unusual specimen of the so-called criminal mind.” She smiled briefly. She said her name was Quyen; she was about forty years old, judging from her appearance. She had been interrogating Gobels for several days now. “Things will go much easier on you, Doctor, if you will tell us all you know about the baby Skink, Moses.”

Gobels smiled. “Sure. I’ll tell you everything about him. For one million credits and immunity from prosecution. Oh, and one thousand Davidoff cigars. I’ve already made that very clear, young lady.”

“I’ve discussed your proposal with the attorney general’s office, Doctor. We may be able to come to an agreement here. But first we need something, something to assure us that you will cooperate. I need a carrot before we can give you an apple. If you do not cooperate, you will go on trial for treason, you will be convicted, and you will spend the rest of your life behind bars. But time is short, Doctor. The season is rapidly turning colder. We know he can’t survive the winter.” She reached into a pocket and produced a Davidoff. “An Anniversario Number Two.” She handed it to Gobels. It had already been cut.

“You know, we can always go to Dr. Fogel. He is cooperating fully with us.”

Gobels laughed pleasantly. “Pensy? Yes, he knows a thing or two, but not what I do. For the real dope on Skinks you have to come to me, I’m afraid.” Quyen lit the cigar for him. He sat back and sucked in the delicious smoke and regarded her carefully through the blue-gray cloud that billowed between them. “Excellent,” he sighed. In a way, Quyen was very attractive. He rolled the cigar between his fingers and said, “They are watching us, every moment, aren’t they? They are recording my every word, aren’t they?” He glanced up at the corners of the room and grinned into the hidden devices.